The Story of He

He tells me how pretty I look tonight,
The short dress,
making my legs look longer.
He knows not of the pain of
Every hair pulled out,
the burn of the hot wax,
The anxiety as the strip is rubbed against my skin.
For him they’re just a pretty pair.

He told me how he wanted to kiss
my luscious lips.
Red lips which were nothing compared to
The redness caused above them,
When the hair was threaded out.
It buried into my skin,
As I press my tongue against it.
So as to retaliate?

The glint in my big black eyes,
would make him stare into them all day.
Well, not with my dense black brows,
the plucking of which,
made my eyes quiver in pain.

Shaving my hair,
Shaving it off my head.
The latter considered bizarre,
The former, well, surreptitious.

We’re told
Pretty hurts.
Handsome never does.
Child birth hurts,
Intercourse on him doesn’t.
Menstruation hurts, Boners don’t.
Then why should I choose pretty,
When I endure pain almost at every turn in life?
Be it a war between my legs or a new life inside me?

So the next time he tells me I’m pretty,
I’ll tell him to wait,
Till my dark black hair
Is back.